


only loving in the cover of the moon

by AugustaByron



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Polyamory, Soulmates, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AugustaByron/pseuds/AugustaByron
Summary: Look, Kent just wanted to come talk to Zimms. He's not looking for some mythical fated mating bond with Eric Bittle.





	1. the sun is coming and you're running on fumes

**Author's Note:**

> So, we've got werewolves? 
> 
> General warnings for Kent Parson being a dick about mental health. Along those lines, ableist language. Let me know if I should add any warnings!
> 
> Title from Trixie Mattel's "Make Up Your Mind." 
> 
> Check, Please belongs to Ngozi Ukazu.

“ _Leave_ , Parse,” Zimms says, with enough venom in his voice that it almost knocks Kent off his feet. He's looking at Kent with his eyes glinting cold, his cheeks still flushed, his lips kiss-bruised, and Kent can smell the anxiety pouring off of him in waves. He used to think that it was just part of Jack's scent, maybe the chemical aftermath of his pills. It took him forever after Juniors to figure out that he'd been wrong, all that time.

Well, never let it be said that Kent can't take a fucking direction. He grabs his hat and yanks open the door, and has about two seconds to be grateful that it's not the full moon before his senses take over entirely.

The wolf in Kent is howling, scratching at the surface, snapping at the air. In front of him, kneeling on the floor and grappling for something small and metal, is some blond kid—Kent recognizes him from the selfie parade downstairs, maybe.

But damn it, there were so many people downstairs, so much spilled beer and pot smoke in the air, that it confused all the scents into one maelstrom, impossible to read. Up here, even though it's just a flight of stairs away from all that, it's a different story.

Kent stares at the kid—his name, what's his fucking name? The kid stares back at him.

Behind him, the sour smell of Jack's anxiety spikes.

“You,” the kid croaks. He gets up off his knees, and Kent's wolf rumbles in pleasure. Not a kid, not a pushover. An equal. “Are y'all serious right now?”

Kent laughs, even though it's so far from fucking funny. He's probably going to miss his game tomorrow because of this. No way he's going to get himself under control enough to play.

“Looks like it. What's your name again?”

“Eric Bittle,” he says, and oh. Of course. Kent should have known from the accent and his own goddamn shit luck. This couldn't have been some nice bitten kid, it had to be a Bittle.

“Bitty,” Zimms says, from behind him. Kent jolts, startled. He didn't forget Jack was behind him, not exactly. He hasn't been able to forget anything about Jack Zimmermann since he was sixteen and panting, moon-sore and popping claws every two minutes, and he most especially can't forget where Zimms is at all times. His nose can't forget it. “What's going on?”

“Oh,” Bittle—Bitty, that's too much, how is a member of the oldest pack in the American South nicknamed Bitty?--turns red. He looks up at Jack in dismay from beneath lowered eyelashes, and Kent wants to growl, wants to snarl. He thought there was flirting going on, earlier, when it only meant something because it was Zimms putting the moves on some guy, some college boy. Now--

Kent jams his hands in his pockets instead of giving in to his instincts. He's better than that. He's Kent fucking Parson. 

Zimms has sidled his way in front of Kent, into Bittle's space, and is looking down at him with concern obvious in his eyes. Like Kent's a threat. Like anyone has ever been a threat to Bittle, Jesus.

“Jack, I wanted to tell you before,” Bittle is saying, and Kent huffs a laugh. This, he can manage.

“Hey, Zimms,” he says, and waits until Jack looks at him. He lets some fang slip, grins. “Aroooo,” he croons, a parody of a howl.

“Are you joking,” Zimms says, flat.

Bittle is white-faced and furious, and it makes part of Kent want to whimper, but instead he just laughs. He gnashes his teeth until they're back to normal, and says, “What, Bittle. You thought I never told Jack about werewolves?”

 

They drive to some burger joint in Kent's awesome rental car, because Bittle didn't want to talk in Jack's room. Kent doesn't get why, because being in Jack's den made him feel at home for the first time in way too long, and now they're crowded into a cramped plastic booth, knocking elbows and knees. But whatever. Maybe Bittle didn't want Kent's scent all over his shitty frat house.

It doesn't escape Kent's notice that he's alone on one side of the booth, or that his skin itches to touch Bittle. Every time they almost brush hands reaching for the ketchup or whatever is awesome, like getting drunk must feel for normal people, like doing shots of cheap ass tequila off of Zimms' stomach when they were seventeen. The burn, yeah, but the flickering warmth, the rush afterwards.

“Explain it again,” Jack demands. Kent rolls his eyes. They did Fangs and Fur 101 years ago, and if Jack's had all these questions burning a hole in him since, well, he could have damn well picked up a phone.

“We're mates,” Kent says for like the third time. He tosses a fry into his mouth. He shouldn't be eating this crap, especially before a game, but whatever. It's late as hell, past curfew, and Kent's in a different city. He's either fucked or he's not. A fry or two isn't going to matter.

“You and Parse,” Jack says. He's talking to Bittle, and fuck, yeah, that smarts a little. Way to rub it in, Zimms. Kent licks his lips, chasing salt from the fries and the taste of Jack from an hour ago, when they were making out sad and sloppy against the wall of his room.

“Yup.” Kent's more sure than he was before. Even under the flickering fluorescent lights of this all-night diner, Eric Bittle is basically the most perfect thing he's ever seen. It's kind of driving him nuts, to be honest. Kent did not come here for this. He came here because his therapist keeps talking about how maybe Kent can't let go because Jack's never straight-up told him to, and how that might be a helpful conversation for them to have.

Kent's definitely getting a new therapist when he gets back to Vegas.

“You're mates,” Zimms repeats. His voice almost has a pitch to it. “You're mates.”

“Are you getting hysterical? Should I fetch the smelling salts?” Kent dips his finger in his water glass and flicks some droplets at Jack. Jack bats at them irritably, like he can catch water, and Kent's heart twists in on itself. This is what he wants. To sit across from Zimms at shitty diners and annoy him, but like, forever. Not to have a Bittle as his mate, and all that goes with that.

Fuck, Bittle is pretty. His shoulders are so broad for his height. Kent knows how strong he's got to be, wolf strength. What would he look like shifted? What would it be like to run under the moon with him?

“Knock it off, Kenny,” Jack says, and Kent snaps back to reality. He's never going to run with Bittle. “This is serious.”

“You're telling _me_ it's serious? Look at him!” Kent waves his hand at Bittle, who's been staring down at his paper placemat, but who now glares at Kent ferociously. “He's the next alpha of Dixie! That is a fucking pedigree right there! I just thought that puberty was really intense and maybe came with more hair than I expected until my Nana explained some shit about my mom. And I'm like five years older than him. I'm a dirty old man corrupting the son of the Bittle and Phelps packs. They're going to rip me apart.” Literally.

This is like eight hundred times worse than when Kent realized that the new guy on his team, whose ass he was checking out, was actually Jack Zimmermann, son of Bad Bob. And that was a bad moment, right there.

“How'd you know I'm the next alpha?” Bittle asks, quiet. Kent is at a fucking loss, here.

“Because I talked to you for five fucking seconds.” Kent stares at Bittle, who stares back at him. He's got nice eyes, Kent thinks, and then he thinks oh, fuck. He's falling quick, here, the mating pheromones doing their work. He's got to get out of here. He's got to get on the road, get back to Boston, to Vegas.

Except—there's no way that Kent leaves this shit half-done. One way or another, he's got to get an answer. Most wolves never find a mate. It's next to impossible, since the other person has to be a wolf, too. For a while during Juniors Kent was convinced that Jack was his mate, just waiting to get bitten, but then Jack refused and OD'd in quick succession, so whatever.

Just the fact that he's stumbled across Eric Bittle is half a miracle, even if he's old blood and clearly has a thing for Zimms.

“Okay,” Zimms says, low and intense. “So you're a werewolf, Bitty. And Parse—is supposed to be your soulmate?”

“My mate,” Bittle says slowly. He pulls a face, like he doesn't like the taste of the word, and Kent does not wince or anything stupid like that. He just slouches down a little in his side of the booth, casual. Not at all hiding his neck. “It's—it's a bit complicated, Jack.”

“You're telling me,” Kent agrees. If he could just touch Bittle, a good long one, scent his skin out so that Kent could find him if he ever went away--

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not going down that road. Kent drains his glass of water, chews on a couple of ice cubes for good measure. He bounces a leg, needing somewhere to put his nervous energy. He drums his fingers on the table.

“Calm down, Kent,” Jack says. Kent's leg and fingers still practically before the words are out, and he blushes crimson. Still listening to anything Zimms says. Real smooth, Parson, way to impress your mate.

“Listen, why don't you just give me your number,” Kent says, suddenly itching to get the fuck out. He pulls out his phone and slides it across the table to Bittle. No chance of skin contact. He can do this. “I really need to get going. I'm in so much shit when I get back to Boston.”

Jack frowns at him, even as Bittle punches his contact info into Kent's phone. “You don't think you should stay and talk about this a little?”

“I've got hockey to play, Zimms,” Kent says. Snarls, whatever. “The NHL waits for no man. And we've got phones.”

And Bittle doesn't fucking want him, that much is plain as the nose on his face. Kent can take a hint. Jack and Bittle will be very happy together on their shitty little team, and Kent will keep being the youngest captain to ever lift the Stanley Cup.

He's just—he's just got to get the fuck out.

“Why don't you call me if you want to talk about this, Bittle,” Kent says. He stands up, jams his hat back onto his head. “And Jack, call me if you decide you want to win a Cup.”

He doesn't turn around as he leaves.

 

If Kent were anyone else, he wouldn't have played that game. He would have been a healthy goddamn scratch, would have let his team down because he was out following his dick, and that would have been that.

Instead he gets to let his team down because he's a fucking mess out on the ice, and that honestly sucks worse. The Bruins demolish them, and Kent's point streak snaps for good measure. He stays in the shower for way too long, after, trying to beat the soreness and loss out of his muscles with hot water.

“Let's go, Princess,” Lefty yells, and then throws a bottle of shampoo at Kent for emphasis. “We all want to get on the fucking bus. Sooner we get back to airport is the sooner we're off this stupid ass coast.”

“You're from Connecticut,” Kent says, but he gets the fuck out of the shower.

When he checks his phone on the bus to the hotel, there aren't any texts or missed calls.

Kent's fine with that.

 

The moon is—yeah.

Kent wakes up in the morning absolutely wrecked. He hasn't hurt like this since training camp his rookie year. He's got long gashes up and down his front door, like he tried to break out in the night. His hands are covered in dried blood from wearing his claws down on the wood. He's basically a walking bruise, which is definitely from ramming himself against the door over and over, trying to make it give way. He remembers that part.

“Shit,” he croaks, and winces when his throat throbs. He must have been howling. It's a good thing his house is out in buttfuck nowhere, or else someone probably would have called the cops.

He takes a couple of the Vicodin left over from the last time he had to get a fake tooth, and hobbles his way to bed. Thank fucking God that practice isn't until late today.

He wakes up a few hours later to his phone ringing insistently. Kent gropes for it, eyes still closed. It's gotta be Jeff or someone. Kent probably blew off breakfast plans without remembering they existed.

“'Lo?” he manages.

There's harsh breathing on the other end, and then, “Parse. Bitty said you hurt yourself.”

Kent sits upright in his bed, wide awake. “Jack?”

“He told me to tell you not to do it again, to call your pack next time. Parson, I swear, if Bitty's still sick like this tomorrow because of something you did--”

“He's sick?” Kent's stomach twists. Somehow, in a pile of terrible things—the reminder that he doesn't have a pack to call, Zimms calling him Parson like they're strangers—the idea that Bittle is just as moon-sick as Kent is the worst. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“He's fine,” Jack says. He sounds—God, Kent wants to be in front of him, able to smell, to see. Catch a whiff of something. “He says it's like a hangover, he's already up and around. But he said he's hurt because you're hurting yourself.”

“It's not like I meant to,” Kent snaps. Relief swamps him, peters out quickly. He can feel the anger bubbling up, the way it always does when he's cornered. Claws out, ready to say some dumb shit. The Parse special. “Why the fuck did it hurt him?”

“He says it's the bond.” Jack is quiet for a second, while Kent digests that. “Is it like it used to be? When we were kids?”

When they were kids, Kent had no idea how to control himself. He used to shift at the rise of the moon, curl up around Zimms in his wolf skin, or else drag Zimms out into the winter night to play in the snow. Kent remembers those moons. He would wake up sore, tired, skating sluggishly from exhaustion.

It was the best he ever felt after the full moon.

“Yeah, pretty much." Now that he knows Bittle's fine, the adrenaline is fading. It is kind of like a hangover. A hangover plus the aftermath of a bar fight, one he lost. He'll probably feel better after a shower and a protein shake. “Is he, uh. There?”

Another pause, like Zimms is consulting someone. Kent can picture them, Jack and Bittle, curled up in Jack's den. It makes his stomach clench up. They've got a place together, just their scents, Kent's nowhere near. That's his fucking _mate_ , he should be--

“Yeah,” Jack says stiffly. “Did you want to speak with him?”

Kent wakes up from dreams of brown eyes all the time. It's starting to be a problem.

“Sure,” Kent says. There's a rustle, another murmur, and then--

“Hi,” Bittle says, and Kent wants to howl. Bittle sounds wary, a little pissed off, and like everything Kent has been aching for since December. He pushes it down.

“I'm sorry that you got caught up in my shit,” Kent says, because seriously. He's such a fucking mess that Bittle ended up sick. “Are you okay?”

There's a rush of static as Bittle sighs. “I'm fine, just a little achy. Nothing that won't be cured with a nap.” His accent is thicker than Kent remembered. He wonders if it's because Bittle is tired, or if his memory of that night is just skewed towards smell and sight.

“Cool,” Kent says. He should say something. It doesn't matter if Bittle hasn't called, hasn't sent a text or a smoke signal. This is his mate, his only mate-- “I should let you get to it, then.”

“Parson,” Bittle says, sharp enough that Kent inhales. “What are you going to do for the next moon?”

Shit. Kent hasn't thought that far ahead. “I'll take some sleeping pills first, I guess. Knock out for the whole thing.”

Bittle snorts, skeptical. “Sure, enough to knock out a wolf. Do you have horse tranquilizers stashed away somewhere?”

“I'll figure it out.” Kent's not going to hurt Bittle again, for fuck's sake.

“You don't have a pack?” Bittle asks, amazed, and Kent realizes he can't answer that question. Because technically, he's now in the Bittle pack. All the rules of wolves say that he's been a part of Bittle's pack since the moment they met, since they second they realized what had happened.

But he's not, is he? Kent's never really had a pack, which is cool, he's done just fine for himself.

“It won't be a problem, dude,” Kent says. Bittle tries to say something, but Kent is out. It's cool, it's whatever. “I've got to get to practice.”

“Okay,” Bittle says. “Bye?”

“Bye.” Kent hangs up before he can embarrass himself any more than he already has.

 

And that's—that. Bittle doesn't call. Jack doesn't call. Kent is fine. He does his thing. He plays, and he scores, and he takes the Aces to to the playoffs. He reads about Jack Zimmermann signing with the Providence Falconers. He makes a dummy account on Twitter so he can follow Bittle. He buys his cat a new climbing tree and it turns into her new favorite perch. Things are going great.

He tries to sleep through the moon and it works, sort of. He doesn't wake up having destroyed his house again.

“Bro, are you okay?” Jeff asks when they're gearing up for the fourth game of a playoffs run against the Schooners. The fucking Schooners, man, Kent hates them. It's dumb luck that they're in the playoffs at all. But more than that, it's shit luck that has half the Aces lineup injured and their defense all fucked up.

Kent's wrist still hurts from a nasty slash in the last game, he's skating slow, and it's the full moon tomorrow. If they don't win tonight they're out in the first round, which hasn't happened since Kent was a rookie.

They're not going to lose.

“I'm fine, man.”

They lose.

They lose because Kent wasn't fast enough on the puck, because he's skating tired and hurt, because he couldn't get it done. They're out in the first round of the playoffs, in April, and that's on Kent.

He can't help scanning Bittle's Twitter for any mention that he so much as watched the game, but there's nothing. Not a single thing. It's all flirting with Jack and baking and Beyoncé. The bond tugs at Kent all the time, in the back of his throat, the bottom of his gut, a reminder that he's supposed to be somewhere else.

Well, fuck that. Kent's not the alpha, he's not supposed to track Bittle down. He's not technically allowed to. It would open him up for all kinds of shit if the Bittle or Phelps packs got wind of it. Someone could challenge him for mating rights, which would definitely not end well. Kent is not a fighter. He does not feel like going around rocking claw scars for the rest of his life.

So he swallows down the lump in his throat and gives the media the customary speech. They had some bad bounces. This is a great team. They'll all rest up and be ready for the next season. He claps some of the rookies on the shoulder, shares commiserating looks with the other vets, and pushes it down. This isn't the first time the Aces haven't made it all the way.

But after, in the hotel—fuck, Kent wants--

He picks up his phone, masochistic. There aren't any missed calls, not from Jack, not from Bittle. Kent wants to be home in Vegas with an urgency that startles him, but the plane doesn't leave until the morning. Management, with their usual optimism, wanted them to be able to rest for the next game. Shit luck on that one.

So meanwhile, the moon is tugging at Kent's guts, almost full. He's stuck in Seattle, away from his house and his cat. He's jumpy under his skin, the exhaustion of the playoffs and his last few months merging until he feels punch-drunk, antsy. He wants to fight, fuck, find Jack Zimmermann and howl at the moon.

Instead, Kent goes to a werewolf bar.

The Pacific Northwest is basically only good for one thing, as far as Kent is concerned. There's a lot of wolves up here, drawn to the forest and what used to be cheap land. The packs are old and peaceful, with freedom of movement guaranteed in the region. Back when Kent was supposed to go second, to the Schooners, he was excited about it.

Now, it's a release. Kent doesn't have a pack, has never had a pack. According to everything he's heard, the closest he ever got was being road roomies with Zimms in the Q. But there's something about being with other wolves that's good. Especially because Kent can fuck another wolf without risk of getting outed. Mutually assured destruction can be a beautiful thing.

Jeff is in the hallway when Kent slips out of his room, and he gives Kent the hairy eyeball. Probably judging how tight Kent's jeans are. “Want company, cap?”

“Nah. Going to see a friend,” Kent says, pasting on a smirk. He thinks it comes out okay, from the way Jeff rolls his eyes. He goes out enough in Seattle that half the guys seems convinced he's got a secret girlfriend who lives around here, or that he's fucking a Schooner. Like Kent would ever be that hard up.

“Use protection,” Jeff says, and Kent shoots him some finger guns in response. Jeff gives him the finger, so Kent pretty much nailed that interaction.

Werewolf bars are like any other country western dive. There's a lot of dead deer heads on the wall, the jukebox is always going, and the pool table usually has some deep scratches on it. These scratches tend to come from claws, but same difference.

Kent goes in careful, keeps his neck tucked away, orders a whiskey. He sips it for a few minutes and pointedly doesn't look at the TV over the bar in case they start recapping the game. And--

Someone settles in the barstool next to him. Kent glances over and sees a guy in a flannel shirt with a full, dark beard. He's got nice eyes, Kent thinks, and he's big: beefy and taller than Kent, not like that's so hard.

“Hey,” the guys says. He doesn't offer his hand, and it's nice. This is why Kent likes to come here. He doesn't have to touch strangers, which always makes his wolf nervous when it's not part of hockey. “I'm Mike. Nguyen pack.”

“Kent. I'm from Vegas.” Kent takes a swig of his drink and watches Mike process it—no pack, from out of town, very clearly smelling like he wants a fuck. Jackpot.

“What are you drinking?” Mike asks.

“Whiskey,” Kent says, smirking a little. It's a good look on him. So fucking what if some goddamn college boy isn't interested? Kent has been on magazine covers.

“What a coincidence. I've got a bottle at my house that I've been meaning to drink.”

Amused despite himself, Kent laughs. “Is that so?”

Mike smiles, and okay. It's a nice smile. If Kent were interested in anything other than the obvious, he might actually like to get to know the guy behind that smile.

As it is, he drains his glass. “Well? Are you going to take me home or what?”

 

Kent goes to clean up in Mike's bathroom. He washes his hands mechanically, looks at his own pale face in the mirror. Fuck, he's got beard burn all up his neck. And there, just under the collar of his shirt: a bite mark. Kent's never let another wolf actually bite him during sex before. It's not like it means anything, it was just hot, but still.

He looks like a fucking mess.

In the middle, when Mike was fucking him, teeth latched onto Kent's skin with bruising pressure, Kent thought that he felt a burst of rage through the bond, Bittle pissed off, furious. But it's not like Bittle knows--

Fuck, he's so tired. He just wants to go home, already.

Kent splashes cold water on his face and rests there against the sink for a minute. His phone buzzes in his pocket. Mechanically, he pulls it out and answers. “'Lo?”

“What in the hell do you think you're doing?” Jack snarls at him, and Kent isn't tired anymore. “What did you do to make Bittle act like that?”

Okay. This Kent can do. He watches himself in the mirror when he says, “What, is Bittle jealous? It was barely a real bite, he was polite about it.” His stomach roils in protest. He wants to throw up.

“You--? Of course,” Jack says, huffing out a laugh. “You went out and let someone fuck you, even knowing that Bittle can feel everything that happens to you. Of course you did. I guess people really don't change, eh?”

Something mean and vicious rises up in Kent, makes him say, “So how many pills have you taken today then, Zimms?”

There's an ugly silence in response. Kent wants to run away, hide, claw himself open and take it back. But--

“Maybe I deserved that,” Jack says, and Kent wants to be relieved, but all he feels is guilty. “But you—you've got to make this right with Bittle.”

“Can I come to Samwell?” Kent asks, heart pounding. If he just see, smell, hear Bittle--Jack--

“Call me when your flight lands,” Jack growls, and hangs up.

Well. Kent guesses he finally got his phone call.

 

 


	2. everything will happen, it will happen in time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sure, it's not the fairytale mating that Bitty always dreamed of when he was little, but it's real. It happened. Who can say that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More werewolves! I don't think there are any chapter-specific warnings this time. General Kent Parson being a jerk when he's feeling insecure, I guess.

Bitty is halfway through a peach pie when Jack appears in the kitchen, looking hangdog and sorry. He smells like anxiety, worse than usual. Bitty wrinkles his nose.

“Jack! What's wrong?” It couldn't possibly be the way that Bitty embarrassed himself earlier, practically crying in the kitchen, not expecting anyone to come home so soon. That couldn't be what's making Jack smell like that. He didn't even smell like that when Bittle finally sensed him standing frozen in the doorway, staring, and could only manage, “Kent,” through his ragged breathing, trying to keep his tears in.

Jack just turned tail and walked away. Small mercies.

“I called Parse,” Jack says. “I told him he can't—do whatever he was doing. To make you act like that.”

“Oh, dear,” Bitty says. He should never have lost control of himself. He never _does_ lose control like that. It's just that he felt the way Kent was letting that other wolf kiss him, bite him, _have_ him, and he snapped. Plus the moon is almost full, to top it all off. And then he went and let Jack see, worst of all.

His mama would have his head. Letting his instincts get the better of him that way. Bitty kneads the dough for his crust a little harder. He just needs to calm down. This isn't the way his pack deals with things, bursting out all over the place. His cousins, maybe, but not Bitty. He's going to be the alpha. He can't afford himself the same kind of leeway.

Even _if_ his mate is out there letting strange wolves--

Bitty looks down in dismay at the claws shredding his neat ball of dough. He hasn't been this out of control since he was about thirteen.

“It's okay,” he says to Jack, who seems like he's waiting on a better response. “I'm okay. It was just sudden, is all. I didn't expect--”

To be studying and feel the phantom of teeth in a neck, feel the way Parson let some strange wolf touch him when he hasn't even let Bitty--

“He's on his way,” Jack says, stiff. Bitty almost shifts right there, that's how shocked he is.

“Pardon me?” Bitty knows he couldn't of heard right. There's no way that Jack called Bitty's mate and had him come to Samwell, probably still with some other wolf's marks on him. Something savage in Bitty rumbles at the very thought.

“You two need to figure this out,” Jack says. He crosses his arms and glowers down at Bitty like this is checking practice, like this is something that Jack understands at all. “If he's going to make you feel this way, distract you like this, make you cry--”

“I wasn't crying!” Bitty protests. And he wasn't. He almost did, but not quite.

“--then you need to break it off,” Jack says. There's a note of finality in his voice.

“Break it _off_?” Bitty's fangs drop involuntarily. No. There's no way. Kent Parson is _his_ , it's written in their scents, in the way that Bitty can feel him. And sure, it's not the fairytale mating that Bitty always dreamed of when he was little, but it's real. It happened. Who can say that? Bitty doesn't know anyone else with a real mate, not in his whole pack or his allies' besides.

“Or fix it,” Jack says, nodding. “You don't know him the way I do, Bittle. He'll just keep on hurting you, he won't even think about it.”

He's talking about your mate, Bitty's wolf whispers to him. He's _insulting_ your mate.

Bitty crushes that back down. Jack is probably right. It's not like Bitty knows too much about Kent Parson, other than that he can apparently walk away from fate like it's nothing, leave it stranded in a diner booth to call an Uber.

But on the other hand--

“He's coming here? Now?” With the Haus looking like this? There is a pair of ladies' underwear stuck to the bulletin board with thumb tacks, for Christ's sake. This isn't the kind of place Bitty can bring his mate, this isn't a den that's going to make Kent Parson want to stay. This is the kind of den that's going to make Kent Parson go out and fuck more people, probably other famous beautiful hockey players.

“He got a flight, he's on the way from Seattle right now,” Jack confirms, for the first time looking less than sure. “Um. Bittle. You're turning red.”

“This is a disaster,” Bitty hisses. His pie is not even close to being done. There are, he thinks, a little hysterically, socks draped on every surface of his room. He has to clean, he has to shower, he has to go get a haircut because he's been putting it off--

No. There's no time. Bitty takes a deep breath, the way Katya always told him to before he went out onto the ice. He pushes his instincts back down. Nothing he does now is going to make Kent Parson more or less impressed with him. If a mate bond didn't do it--

“Well, no use crying over spilt milk,” Bitty says. He squares his shoulders. “You clean the living room, I'll handle the kitchen.”

Jack blinks at him, bewildered, and Bitty's stupid, idiot heart clenches. He can't have a crush on Jack Zimmermann. He can't have a crush on _anybody_ , not when he's got Kent Parson. Even if he doesn't have Kent, exactly.

Bitty shakes his head, puts it out of his mind, and gets to work.

 

By the time Bitty hears an unfamiliar car rumble, no, _purr_ down the street, the Haus is as clean as it can be. He broke into Lardo's stash of emergency incense. It makes his nose burn a little, but it's better than the alternative of socks, Siracha, and unwashed boy. It's better than Kent Parson showing up unannounced at Bitty's home, to his _den_ , without giving him time to actually get his laundry done.

No, not unannounced, Bitty remembers, frowning. Jack invited him.

Jack is, of course, is waiting in the kitchen, pretending not to be checking his watch for Kent's ETA. The poor boy is practically vibrating, he's so nervous, and in any other scenario Bitty would feel—something. Would want to help, at least. Now, though--

The expensive engine cuts off. A car door opens, and shuts. Kent Parson breathes out heavily, once.

Bitty's entire body tenses. His mate is out there, not a single inch of him familiar, and Bitty wants to fix it, to rub himself all over Parson, to—no. Nope. Not when Parson's made it clear he's not interested. One hopeless—thing, definitely not a crush—is enough.

He's getting out of the car, walking up to the Haus. The old porch creaks under his weight, an undertone to the night that only Bitty can hear. He knocks, once, twice.

Bitty fixes a smile on his face, the way his mama raised him to, and opens the door.

Parson is wearing a T-shirt even though it's an April night in Massachusetts, and Bitty wants to wrap him up in a jacket or a blanket, keep him warm. He's got bags under his eyes, and he's too skinny. The playoffs, Bitty guesses. Bitty can relate. Their run at the Frozen Four ended last week, and Jack's still looking bleak about it.

“Hi there,” Parson says. Bitty takes a deep breath and doesn't reach out. “I guess—can I come in?”

“Oh! Of course.” Bitty steps back from the threshold to let Kent in. He spares a second to be grateful that the rest of the boys are at some sort of party at the girls' volleyball house.

Parson steps into the Haus, into the light, and Bitty sees red. He can feel his fangs slipping, his claws popping.

“You're marked.” On his _neck_ , Bitty hadn't realized it would be his _neck_ , that he would have to see it right away. Parson's eyes widen. He looks alarmed, takes a step back. Bitty gets control of himself. He can't make his mate back away.

“I'm sorry,” Parson says. He smells—horrible, actually, dear Lord. Like guilt and shame. Bitty wrinkles his nose. “I didn't know that you'd be able to feel it. I never would have if I'd known.”

There is a lot in that sentence that's worrying, honestly. Bitty sighs. “You'd better come in for real. We've got some things to hammer out.”

Jack is still lurking in the kitchen, of course. He goes all stiff when he sees Parson, and Parson goes a little white. Bitty isn't sure how to fix it, or even if it's his place to try, but they're stinking up his den. Maybe they'll calm down if he gives them a minute?

Bitty sits at the kitchen table. Parson sits too, immediately, like he was waiting for Bitty to sit first. That's what Coach does for Mama, and it's startling for a second. Bitty doesn't get treated like a wolf at Samwell. The only person who knows is Jack, and he's as human as they come.

“Heya, Zimmermann,” Parson says, grinning sluggishly at Jack. Bitty can practically feel the way Jack tenses, can hear the way his heart starts beating faster. Is he angry? Anxious? Bitty wishes he could tell. “Thanks for the invite.”

“I told you to come so you and Bittle could talk,” Jack says, and yep. Angry. Bitty hasn't missed this version of Jack, the one who told him he made a lucky shot, that he's a liability on the ice. It's been a while since he's seen this boy.

“So talk,” Parson says, and turns his smile on Bitty. It's not convincing, even though Bitty barely knows him. Bitty watches him muffle a yawn into his shoulder, like Bitty wouldn't hear it anyway. Parson looks like he's about to drop onto the table, all his shame muted into exhaustion.

“Did you sleep at all?” Jack asks, rough. “Jesus, Parse, you really drove over like this?”

“I slept on the plane,” Parson says. “For part of it. Let's talk, you wanted to talk. What, is your alpha pissed, too?”

Bitty frowns at him. “Mama doesn't know anything about this.” If she did, they would've been summoned home months ago.

“Right. So what's up? Did you just want to tell me not to fuck any other wolves, because dude, I get it. I'll try my best to stay out of your head or whatever.” Parson leans back in his chair. Slumps back in his chair.

Bitty gives up. They're not going to get a single thing done tonight, not with Parson clearly spoiling for a fight and Jack's anxiety spiraling into the kitchen, destroying the work of Lardo's incense.

“I think we'd all better get some sleep,” Bitty decides. “Goodness, you just played an NHL game, and then got on a plane. You must be ready to drop.”

Parson blinks at him. “Sure. Okay. I'll go—is there a hotel or something?”

A hotel? Bitty clenches his fists, smothers the part of him that wants to grab Parson by the back of the neck and drag him upstairs, bundle him into Bitty's bed until they smell like each other, like they're supposed to.

“There's a couch,” Jack says. Parson turns that horrible grin on Jack again, and Bitty winces. It's just—not supposed to be like this.

“Kent,” Bitty says, putting a little pressure behind his voice. He can _feel_ the shockwave that goes through Kent, deep in the bond. Why is he so shaken up? Any alpha could do it, he should be used to it. “Just come upstairs. We need to sleep.”

“Sure,” Parson says, then, “Okay, yeah.”

He trails after Bitty on the stairs, close enough to feel the warmth of him, smell the recycle air of the plane. Bitty ignores him, ignores the way his gut is telling him to fix Parson up, get him better, take him home to Georgia and let him soak in the sun for a month, run through the pine forest with him until he's hale and healthy again.

Mama always warned Bitty it would be like this when he took over the pack, that the way he needs to take care of people would get more intense. Bitty already feels it about his little pack-away-from-pack, the team, but it's so much worse with Parson. For one thing, Bitty doesn't even know him, much less like him. He shouldn't have to feel like it's his job to make sure Parse is rested and fed.

Parson hesitates upstairs in the hall, wavers between the closed doors. “Uh. The couch?”

“Ha, ha,” Bitty says, dry, and opens the door to his room. “C'mon, you look like you're about to fall over.”

Bitty isn't embarrassed of his room, even if Parson probably has a penthouse or a mansion or something. He sort of wishes he'd had time to clean up more, but it's too late now.

“Uh.” Parson stalls out again, and Bitty sighs. It's like pulling teeth with this boy, honestly. “Are you—I can take the floor?”

“I'll just let my mate sleep on the floor and face my Moomaw, then,” Bitty says, a little snappish. Is he really so bad that Parson doesn't even want to sleep in the same bed? He's got to be used to models and stuff, hot guys, older guys, but they're not his _mate_.

“Oh,” Parson says, quiet, subdued, _wrong_. Bitty grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes—can't he get any part of this right?

“Just get in the bed, Parse,” Jack says from the doorway. Bitty jumps, startled. How had he not heard Jack come up the stairs? Parson doesn't react. He must have noticed. “Stop being a dick.”

Jack throws a bundle of clothes at Parson, who catches them without looking. Right. Parson's still in his jeans. Bitty's clothes won't fit him.

“Bittle, you can take my bed. I'm going to bunk in with Shits,” Jack says. Bitty watches the way Parson's back goes more rigid, the way his arms are stiff when he strips off his shirt and moves to tug on Jack's. There are marks on his back. Hockey bruises, not wolf-marks. Bitty knows because he doesn't black out with rage again.

“Gotta protect your boy's virtue, Zimms?” Parson says. “You know he's the one in charge of me, right?” Jack takes a deep breath, probably preparing for a retort.

“Stop it,” Bitty says, tired of it all. He waffles. There's no way to say that he wants to be with Parson, wash out his scent, without it coming off weird. To Jack, at least, and maybe to Parson, who seems as clueless as a newly bitten about—well, everything. “Do you need anything?”

“Nah,” Parson says. “Are you sure I shouldn't go get a hotel room? I'll take a cab or something, I don't need to drive if you're worried I'll fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Just—stay. Please.” Bitty swallows hard. “Good night, then.”

It's hard, to leave Parson alone in his room, close the door. Bitty takes a deep breath and pretends that Parson won't be able to hear it.

“Are you okay,” Jack says. Bitty reminds himself, again, that Jack's trying to help. They all need to talk. Somehow they're all three of them in this. What a mess.

“I'm fine,” Bitty says. The day is catching up to him, tomorrow's moon and the adrenaline crash. He wants to sleep for a year. He pats Jack's arm. “I'll make brunch tomorrow. Are you sure you don't want your room? I can go up to the attic, I don't think Rans is coming home tonight anyway.”

“It's fine.” In the dark hallway, Jack's face is hard to read, even with Bitty's level of night vision. “I'm sorry about all this.”

All this—does he mean inviting Parson tonight, or Parson showing up in the first place, all the way back in December? Bitty can't bring himself to be sorry about that. Not even with how complicated it's all been.

“I'll see you in the morning, Jack,” Bitty says, and finally goes to bed.

 

“Oh my god, you're Kent Parson!”

Bitty wakes up to Chowder's excited shriek. He rubs his eyes, bleary with sleep, and then remembers. Kent Parson is here. His mate is here. And now his team is, too.

Dear Lord. Bitty needs to get moving. Disaster is imminent.

By the time Bitty gets dressed and down to the kitchen, Parson is sitting at the kitchen table talking with Chowder. He's got a cup of coffee in front of him, and he smells--

Clean, like he showered, and like Jack. Like Jack's clothes and Bitty, like Bitty's shampoo and bodywash, and Bitty's towel, and something new that must just be Kent. Bitty takes a deep breath, another, tries to fill his lungs. It's maybe the best thing he's ever smelled, fabric softener and coconut and something warm and unfamiliar that seems to be emanating from Kent's skin.

“Yeah, he's a good guy,” Parson is saying. Chowder is starry-eyed, leaning forward onto the table. “I haven't seen him as much since he got traded, obviously, but I miss the hell out of him. Makes playing the Sharks a pain in the ass, but he's happy, and his kid is learning how to surf, so you can't really be mad, right?”

“Wow,” Chowder says. “I can't believe you really know Theo Hall!”

Parson shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. “You want him to sign some shit? I'll tell him to send you a jersey. He owes me one for the last time I took Bobby to the zoo, that kid is a terror after sugar.”

As Chowder goes incoherent with joy, Parson finally turns around to look at Bitty. His smile wavers, but then holds steady. Bitty wants, fiercely, to be able to go over and touch him, just brush his hand over Parson's neck or kiss him. Why can Parson be so sweet to anyone he doesn't know, and then act like such an asshole when it's important?

“Hey,” Parson says. “I made coffee.”

“Bitty, Kent Parson is here!” Chowder exclaims. “He knows Theo Hall! You know, the Sharks' goalie?”

“That's great, Chowder,” Bitty says. He can't look away from Parson wearing a Samwell hockey shirt. “Did Jack already go on his run?”

“Yeah. I thought I should wait for you,” Parson says. “You know, be a polite guest and all.”

There's something very wrong about Bitty's mate considering himself a guest, but Bitty guesses it's true. They aren't really there, yet. Maybe they won't ever be, not if Parson doesn't want to. Bitty isn't even sure if he wants this. Is he ready to be mated, be more than married? What about--

Jack arrives, flushed and sweaty from his run, and stops short when he sees Chowder, Parson, and Bitty. “Hey,” he says. “You're up. Let me shower and then we'll go get breakfast.”

“Sounds good,” Parson says, easy. “I'm starving, dude.”

“Do you want to come, Chowder?” Bitty asks, reflexively, before he can stop himself. How are they supposed to talk with Chowder along?

“Oh! Wow! Thanks, I've got a date with Caitlin, though, we're going to paintball,” Chowder says, looking more excited than disappointed. He gets up, grabs his backpack. “I'll see you guys later!”

“Nice to meet you,” Parson says, all courtesy. The second Chowder's out the door the smile drops off his face, and Bitty fights against the disappointment surging in his stomach. “Go shower, Zimms, I promise not to maul your liney.”

If Bitty were anyone else, Lardo or Shitty or especially Dex, he would shout. Instead, he sighs. “Hurry, please, I want to get out of here before anyone else wakes up.”

“Rans and Holster didn't come home last night,” Jack says. “And Shitty's dead to the world for at least another two hours. We could stay, if you're worried about being overheard.”

It's probably smarter, even if there's something comforting about the idea of other people around, a cushion to prevent things from getting too heated. “Well, go shower and I'll make breakfast, then.”

It's easier to be around Parson when there's something to do, somewhere else to look. Bitty busies himself with the stove. He scrambles a mass of eggs, since he's seen the way Jack eats and can't imagine what he and Parson will be able to put away between them. He tips a whole pack of sausage into a pan, since he's craving meat and knows Parson must be, too.

“You had a good season,” Parson says abruptly. Bitty doesn't turn around. He can't. “I mean, I kept up. You're a good winger. More assists than goals. That's good.”

“Thank you.” What do you say when the best player in the NHL says they've kept up with your season? “I'm sorry about the Schooners.”

Bitty wants to take it back immediately, worried about Parson closing up again. Instead, though, Parson just huffs a little laugh, rueful.

“Yeah, we just couldn't get it together. Fuck Seattle, though, I hate those guys. They're assholes. All the rain makes them crazy.”

“I've never been there.” Bitty applied to the University of Washington, of course. Every wolf does. But they don't give out athletic scholarships the way Samwell does, the campus didn't feel the way Samwell's did when Bitty visited. Like home.

“It sucks,” Parson says instantly. “Well, no, the forest is pretty dope. But the Schooners suck.”

This has got to be like Shitty's complex about Yale, Bitty decides. He wracks his brain for another topic, maybe something less volatile. “Where's your pack from? I know you grew up in New York, but what's your pack?”

“Don't have one,” Parson says, and Bitty has to turn around at that. “I guess my mom was a wolf, but she was adopted and she split when I was like, four. My nana didn't tell me until I tore up the whole living room when I was fifteen.”

“And you don't—what about Vegas?” The Sanchez pack runs Nevada and half of New Mexico, why isn't Parson with them? “Who do you spend the moon with?”

Parson shrugs. “I used to spend it with Zimms when we were in the Q. And I hung out with this girl one time in Colorado, where I was training. She was my trainer's niece or something, maybe his cousin? She was a bitten. We hung out in her apartment for this one moon.”

Bitty gapes at him. “That means you're in my pack. You've been in my pack this whole time?” There was supposed to be a delay. Bitty thought they were in the grace period, still. If Kent had a pack, there would have been protocol to follow, things to eat up time, the courting period. Visits, gifts, a tribute from Mama to their alpha to compensate for the loss of a pack member. But a packless wolf, alone, mated to a future alpha--

Bitty was the one who was supposed to call. He feels himself turning red. How much of this has he fucked up?

“Dude, it's okay,” Kent says. “I've never had a pack, it's not like I was hurting from it.”

Well, this is just unacceptable. No matter what happens with their bond, even if they never solidify it and it stays this way, half-formed and weak, Bitty has responsibilities here. He opens his mouth, not sure what he's going to say, but Kent shakes his head.

“Bittle, I'm not looking for—listen, I know you're in love with Jack. I'm not looking to mess that up for you. I'm just here because I want to stop fucking with your head. If you can feel it when I fuck someone, we're going to have a huge problem.”

In love with Jack? Bitty's heart stutters. He can't be in love with Jack, he's got a mate. And what does Parson mean, when he fucks someone? There will be, Bitty's inner wolf says firmly, no more fucking of anyone else. Bitty may never let Parson out of his sight again, in fact, if this is what he does when left to his own devices.

He's about to give Parson a piece of his mind when Jack strolls into the kitchen, and Bitty deflates. He doesn't want Parson to run his mouth off in front of Jack with these theories. “Let's just eat.”

The rest of the day is—bizarre. Jack and Parson both seem grimly determined to be civil, and as such steer away from topics such as hockey, future plans, and werewolves. Bitty suffers through an hour of talk about fishing. When he's forced to turn to homework for a break from the underlying tension, he learns that Parson is good at math.

“It's simple, right?” Parson says, stealing Bitty's notebook and problem set. “You just--”

Shitty emerges eventually, and he and Parson spend about an hour playing Mario Kart. The Haus is starting to smell like happy-Parson, which might be a problem. Bitty's getting edgy as moonrise gets closer and closer. What would it be like to have Parson here all the time? Not here, of course, that's stupid, but--

“Are you okay?” Jack asks, quiet, while Shitty shoots a blue shell and Parson swears viciously. “You look weird.”

“Hmmm?” Bitty draws himself out of his stupid fantasies. Parson isn't interested, he's made that clear. He doesn't know what it means to have a mate. He doesn't want it. “Oh, I'm fine. Just—you know.”

“Full moon,” Jack says, even quieter. “Parse used to get weird, too.”

Weird isn't quite the word for it. Bitty starts looking up state parks on his phone.

 

“Are you sure you want to stay? You could always come pick us up in the morning.” Bitty doesn't know what to make of Jack coming along for the moon. He was planning to make Parson drive, but Jack volunteered. Insisted might be a better word for it. And Parson smelled so blatantly hopeful that Bitty cracked before he even got out a protest. Now that they're at the trailhead, though, it seems like too much.

“I want to stay,” Jack confirms. Kent makes a small noise, one that Bitty's sure wasn't audible to Jack.

“It'll be cold,” Parson points out. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“I'll sleep in the car,” Jack says. “Or I'll drive back to Samwell and come get you in the morning, if I have to. But I want to stay.”

The hike into the forest. It's past the state park's hours, but that doesn't matter to wolf strength. He and Parson just picked up the gate and moved it, let Jack drive through to the parking lot. The moon is about to rise, and Bitty wants to be in the trees when it does.

Bitty starts to strip as soon as they're deep enough into the woods. He likes this shirt, he doesn't want to tear it. Jack turns red and looks away, and even Parson averts his eyes.

“You'd better hurry up,” Bitty tells Parson. The moon is starting to pull at him, the urgency of the transformation building. Parson nods, once, jerkily, and takes off his shirt. Jack's shirt, Bitty guesses. Why was he so okay with getting half-naked last night, and so shy now? This is more natural.

Of course, Bitty reminds himself, Parson has never run with another wolf before. He's still dumbfounded by the thought.

And then the moon breaks the treetops, and there are no more thoughts.

There's nothing like it—the first moments after the turn. Bitty settles into the ache of it, the way his bones and skin shift into something else entirely, something as familiar as his human skin. He doesn't know how long it takes, but when it's over, when his body feels _right_ , again, he stands up under the moon.

Parson is a beautiful wolf, bigger than Bitty, but so much _Bitty's_ , that it makes his head spin. Everything is more immediate as a wolf, the instincts closer to the surface, impossible to repress. He gives into them and yips at Parson, darts forward and nudges Parson with his nose. Parson, even as a wolf, manages to look surprised.

Bitty doesn't want Parson to just stand there, he wants to run, to play. This is his mate! He yips again, excited, no room for messy human doubt. This is the way he's supposed to be, the way moons will be for the rest of his life, God willing. He bops Parson with one paw, and yes. Parson gets it, grins sloppily, tongue hanging out, and runs.

Bitty howls, once, in joy, and gives chase.

 

The wolves wind their way back to the trailhead later, tired, happy. Bitty leads the way, his nose caught on a welcoming smell, something like home.

Jack.

He's nestled against a tree with a booklight, wrapped in a blanket. Bitty loves him, and Kent loves him, and so they run to him. Kent curls up next to Jack, butts his head against Jack's thigh.

“Hey,” Jack says, smiling. Bitty loves it when Jack smiles. “Hey, Bittle. Lookin' good.” His hand goes into Kent's fur, fingers tangling there, scratching gently. Bitty has never seen anyone pet a werewolf before. His mama would take off the hand of anyone who tried. Jack does it like he's sure of his welcome, like his body remembers.

Maybe he should just—try it. Bitty settles next to Jack, lays his head over Jack's thighs so he can touch his nose to Kent's ruff. Kent sighs, a little, and settles in closer, presses against Jack and Bitty.

“Hey,” Jack says again, softer. “Hey, Parse.”

Bitty closes his eyes. He'll just rest here for a minute. Everything is good here.

 

The only awkward part about the next morning is trying to brush the pine needles off his human skin before he gets dressed.

 

Kent stays until Sunday night, when he's got to get back to Vegas, he says, for locker clean-out. Bitty says goodbye to him on the porch, the Haus conspicuously quiet behind them. He wonders what the boys think about Kent's visit. He hasn't heard any gossip yet. It's sure to be a doozy when it comes.

“Look,” Kent says, avoiding Bitty's eyes. “I've got to go back home for a bit, pack up my house for the summer. But. I could look into training in New York this summer. Or Boston.”

“Somewhere close by,” Bitty says, and Kent finally looks at him. Bitty lets himself smile, is rewarded with Kent smiling back. Yes, yes. There's a tiny spark of hope going off inside of him. “I'd like that. We can spend the moons together, maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe. And I won't fuck things up for you and Jack, I promise,” Kent says. Bitty will fix that. He's going to fix this. He just has to figure out _how_. “But, I mean. We're mates, right? That's a big deal. So we should at least be friends.”

“Friends,” Bitty agrees, and he means it. For now. He can work with this. A mating bond is something special, something magical. He just has to wait for Kent to come around. If he can learn to take a check without wolfing out, he can do this.

 

And then two months later Jack kisses him, and everything changes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bitty POV! This is the first time I've ever actually tried out Bitty's POV, and I'm pretty nervous. Let me know what you think!


	3. never gonna make it till you make up your mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is not thinking about Kent Parson when he runs across campus to see Bitty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is now one more chapter? This spiraled on me.

Jack is not thinking about Kent Parson when he runs across campus to see Bitty. He isn't thinking about much at all, more just getting punched in the gut by a storm of memories that suddenly look a lot different. It feels like the first time he got the wind knocked out of him, when he was seven or so, a hard hit and a sudden reshaping of the world, the visceral knowledge that air existed because it was gone, now, and he didn't know if it would ever come back.

Realizing he's in love is a lot like that, yeah. So Jack does what he has to, and kisses Bitty before he can talk himself out of it.

It's not enough, Jack knows, not when there's all this other stuff going on, werewolves and soulmates and a whole world he doesn't belong to. Jack's just human. He's gotten it together, he's in a good place, he just graduated and signed with an NHL team. That's a lot when he was sure, at seventeen, that he'd be dead in a year. Still. Just being in love with Bitty isn't going to cut it. But there's nothing else he can do.

He kisses Bitty, and hopes.

Of course his phone buzzes, breaks the spell, and Jack has to pull away and stare down at Bitty, who's blinking up at him, eyes wide with surprise. But no revulsion on his face, and he's not spitting at Jack that he can't, that Jack shouldn't have done that, that Kent Parson is better than him and always will be.

“I've got to go,” Jack says. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, sure that this is the last time he'll ever get to do this. And on that note--

The second kiss is better, somehow. Jack's heart twists. He wants to stay for a third, a fourth, a hundredth.

“I've gotta go, but I'll text you,” Jack promises.

“Okay,” Bitty says, still looking shocked. Jack's phone buzzes again. His parents and George are waiting.

“I'll text you,” Jack says, again, and then he has to leave before he stays forever.

 

Jack's expecting a call from Parse. He's dreading a call from Parse. He deserves it, he knows that. He may not really get the werewolf stuff, but he asked Bitty to explain it, after that first full moon they spent in the woods.

Bitty was quiet for a minute, and then he said, “Have you ever known, deep in your bones, that something's right? That you're exactly where you're supposed to be?”

Jack remembered stepping onto the ice for the first time, two, maybe three, years old and wobbly, his dad's hands holding his. They weren't on an NHL rink, there were no cameras. It was winter, on the pond behind his grandpére's house.

He could only manage a nod.

“That what it was like the first time I smelled Kent.” Bitty shrugged. “I grew up hearing about mates. Nobody gets one. It's one in a million. But everyone always said I'd know if it happened.”

Jack's pretty sure there's no way to compete with that.

Still, the call doesn't come. Instead, Bitty responds to his text. And calls him back. And Skypes with him. And it seems, impossibly, like this might actually happen.

Jack goes to Madison for the Fourth of July. He's nervous, at first, about how they're going to keep their relationship under wraps. It seems like Bitty can smell _everything_ , now that he's comfortable talking to Jack about this stuff, and he says that his mother is more powerful than him. Jack won't say anything, of course, but he probably can't control his pheromones.

Bitty laughs when Jack brings it up over Skype. “Oh, honey! They'll know as soon as you walk in the door.”

Jack blinks. “But. I thought your parents didn't know you were gay?”

“Sweetpea, it would be impossible to keep something like that from a house full of werewolves. They've known I was gay since I was thirteen. You can't control what you smell like when cute guys come on TV.” Bitty sighs. "They've all had--time. To come around. It's a little easier in a pack than a human family."

“But, Coach?” Jack asks, weakly. “I thought you were always worried about what he'd think.”

Bitty's face darkens for a minute. “That's more about what type of alpha I'll be,” he mutters. Jack wants to be next to him so badly it hurts, close enough to reach out, touch. “My daddy's from the old school. My mama, too, I guess.”

“So I'm coming to meet them as--” Jack doesn't say boyfriend. He hasn't technically asked Bitty to be his boyfriend yet. They're seeing each other. That's it for now. He doesn't want to put on any pressure.

“My significant other,” Bitty agrees, smiling again. His smile dims. “That's why I can't even ask Kent to come down, even though it's his birthday. They'd know as soon as they saw him.”

“Too soon?” Jack tries to make it into a joke, but his heart is beating faster. Is Bitty going to bring Parse down to meet his family? His pack? Isn't that a big step?

“Well, it's a lot more like introducing them to my _husband_ than my _boyfriend_ , that's for sure,” Bitty says, and then brightens, like he didn't just stop Jack's heart for a second. His husband? “Oh! Did I tell you that my Aunt Judy is coming after all? You'll love her.”

“You didn't,” Jack manages weakly. He pushes the thought away. He's the one who's going home to Bitty. It's all going to be just fine.

 

Jack has already met Suzanne Bittle, and so he had no idea he'd be so terrified of her when she lets her eyes flash a golden yellow while she shakes his hand.

“So, you're the one dating our Dicky, then?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jack says. Suzanne stares at him for a second, and then her eyes melt back into a familiar brown.

“Well, we've got to get a picture! Dicky, come over here!”

“Mother,” Bitty groans. Jack grins at him.

“Yeah, c'mon, Dicky. Take a picture.”

“Why did we invite you,” Bitty gripes, but he takes the picture.

 

Two days before the July full moon, Bitty answers a Skype call already looking tense. He chatters through a few minutes about his mother's weekly poker game and the drama that ensued this time before he sighs, and Jack braces himself. Here it is.

“Honey, I need to ask a favor,” Bitty says. Jack can't help smiling at the pet name—he never thought he'd like that kind of thing, but when it's Bitty it feels  _special_. It makes Jack feel special. Whatever Bitty wants probably isn't a big deal at all.

“Whatever you need.”

“I need you to let Kent come stay with you for the moon,” Bitty blurts, and then continues without letting Jack get in a reply, his words falling all over each other as he rushes to say, “I know it's a lot, but I worry about him. He was already on his own for the one on the first, since I was home and you were here with me, and I know he took all those tranquilizers again. I can't stand to think about him all alone for the whole night, having to drug himself to get through it. I told him he either has to go to Providence or come down here, and neither of us want to have him meet the whole pack yet. But if it's that or leaving him alone--”

There's one part of this that's throwing Jack for a loop.

“You told Kent about us?”

It must be Bitty's turn to be surprised, because he stops rambling to gape at Jack, mouth open. “He's my mate. He knew as soon as you kissed me.”

That's—complicated. Jack isn't sure exactly what to make of the tangle of emotions Parse brings up in him on the best day. Add in Bitty, plus the whole mates thing, and now Kent's known the whole time?

It's not like Jack doesn't know that Bitty and Parse are—friendly, or whatever. Kent came back to Samwell for the full moon in May and June, and they went back out to woods. He's seen Kent's name pop up on Bitty's phone. He knows that they're texting, maybe talking on the phone.

“I thought you knew,” Bitty says, softly. “Sweetheart, I thought you knew. I mean, you know that I could feel it when he—so I assumed.”

“It's fine. Bittle, it's _fine_ ,” Jack says, when Bitty still looks unconvinced. “Look, he can come. If it's important to you.”

Bitty heaves out another sigh, this one obviously of relief. “Thank you. Thank you, Jack. Now, why don't you tell me about this new jogging route of yours.”

Jack nods, starts to talk about how he's been trying to explore Providence a little more on his runs, get to know the town. His brain whirs furiously, only half his mind on Bitty.

It's not like it'll be bad, having Parse around. He'll be a wolf most of the time. Jack can do this.

 

Parse arrives like a hurricane, and Jack waits to feel like he's sixteen again, a little awestruck of how much this new guy on the team can  _talk_ , a little nervous that he's got some serious competition for next season's C. Or to think about Kent lifting the Stanley Cup while Jack couldn't even get into a room with a minor league team to talk about a tryout. But he—doesn't.

Instead, he thinks about the way Chowder wore Theo Hall's signed jersey for two weeks straight, until Dex threatened him with bodily harm if he didn't wash it.

“Hey,” Jack says. Kent smirks at him, just a little, the way he would before he stole the puck to play keepaway.

“Hey, Zimms. Thanks for volunteering to dogsit.”

Jack frowns—he may not be up on his werewolf knowledge, but he's pretty sure dog jokes are bad. “Better not let Bitty catch you saying shit like that.”

Kent snorts, tosses his duffle bag onto the couch. “I won't tell if you won't.”

Jack nods, not sure what to say. They haven't been alone since EpiKegster. There have always been other people around, a buffer. It's—helped. A lot.

“So,” Kent says, after the silence has stretched around them, tight like a rubber band. “Want to go skate?”

“Fuck yes,” Jack says, grateful. “Let me grab my gear.”

 

Parse rented out a local ice rink. Of course he did.

“What? It's a weekday afternoon in July, dude, it's not like we're ruining anyone's good time. I checked that they didn't have any birthday reservations or anything first. I thought you could use an activity, I know you're just pining away for Bitty up in your apartment all day.”

“I joined a book club, too,” Jack says, and tears off down the ice. Kent barks out a laugh and chases after him.

It's good. Jack remembers how good this used to be, the way they've always meshed on the ice. He brought his stick, of course, but it doesn't feel urgent. He and Parse fall into an old habit, racing around the ice, three laps. Kent's faster, now, for sure. It's work to stay ahead, and then just to keep up.

“Slowing down in your old age, Zimmermann,” Kent calls when he crosses the finish line first, spinning around to skate backwards, slowing down to a lazy crawl. “It's all that weight you're hauling around in your ass.”

“My ass has always been this big.” Jack puts on a burst of speed so he can backcheck Kent. Parse goes sprawling away across the ice, laughing, and Jack grins back.

It's an easy way to kill an hour or so, and then they have to eat. Jack takes Kent to a bistro he found the other day. They don't talk much, but it's an easier silence than Jack is used to. This, too is weird because it's not. He remembers spending whole afternoons out by the lake with Kent, almost silent, just existing.

Kent groans and kicks off his shoes when they get back to Jack's apartment. “So, I can just curl up in your spare room or whatever. Bitty's just being a worrywart. You don't need to hang around me the whole time. I'll be fine.”

Bullshit, Jack doesn't say. Parse's eyes are darting all around, his hands are in his pockets, and he's being careful to slouch just a bit, to look casual. Unless he's changed every bit of his body language in the last few years, Kent is lying though his teeth.

“Or.” Jack shrugs, picks up the frisbee he bought the other day after Bitty's call. “There's a park about a mile away.”

“No way,” Kent says, a smile cracking across his face. “Seriously?”

They used to do this, when they were kids. The moon reaches its zenith early in the summer, while the sun's still up. And Kent can pass as a large, possibly illegally large, dog.

Jack shrugs. “Better than having to spend the whole night out in the woods, right? We can just come back when you get tired. Watch a movie or something.”

“Definitely. I didn't want to have to stick around and protect you from roving bears.” Parse is practically bouncing in excitement. “I'll go do my thing, and then we can go. It should be like, what, a half hour? Dude, this is going to rule.”

“There are no bears in Rhode Island,” Jack calls after him. Parse flips him the bird on his way to the spare room.

 

Parse is bigger than he was when they were teenagers, which Jack should have expected. Kent explained it once. Conservation of mass—Kent weighs the same as a wolf that he does as a man. He's packed on plenty of muscle between then and now, especially since it's summer. So while Bitty could probably pull of being a very large, very dangerous husky, it's harder for Kent.

Jack puts on his yellow sneakers, just to throw off suspicion. He should have bought a collar. That might have helped.

They do get some looks on their way to the park, but Parse puts his back into the act, prancing around and letting his tongue hang out, staying right next to Jack's side. It's probably helpful, too, that Parse's fur is the same color as his hair, a warm honey-blond, nothing like a normal wolf.

Parse even sits at the crosswalk and makes Jack whistle before he'll get up to cross the street.

“You're overdoing it,” Jack mutters, and Kent grins up at him. It's still the same smile even when it's on a wolf face, which is disconcerting. At least the park is pretty empty, just a guy jogging on the footpath, a young couple eating ice cream cones on a bench.

Parse sits, again, and looks up at Jack pleadingly. Jack pulls out the frisbee.

“Go long,” he says, and flicks his wrist. Kent dashes off after the frisbee and jumps to catch it, trots back. How can a wolf look smug? “Yeah, yeah, I'll try harder.”

They play for a while: Jack throws the frisbee as far as he can, as high as he can. Parse catches it every time, the little shit.

Jack is about to try faking him out, seeing if he can get Kent to run long while he throws it high, so maybe Jack can finally win a round.

Then a tiny voice shrieks, “Puppy!”

A small weight crashes into Jack's shins. He reaches down, blindly, reacting on instinct. Parse was poised to start running, eyes fixed on the frisbee, but they drop suddenly. Jack follows his gaze and sees a little girl, maybe three years old, reaching for Kent.

“Mellie!” The girl's mother comes running up. She falls to her knees and grabs the girl by the shoulders. “Never, never run towards a strange dog! He could bite you!”

The girl's eyes well up with tears. “But—I want to pet the puppy!”

“You have to _ask first_ ,” the mom says, firm, and looks up at Jack. “I'm so sorry. She's been in kind of a dog phase. For the last year. And a half. Is your dog--” She finally looks at Parse, who's now sitting, panting again, clearly trying to look innocent. “A dog?”

“He's a giant Malamute,” Jack invents wildly. “Um. He's--”

Kent audibly sighs and lays down, rolls onto his side to expose his belly. Jack stares at him. Parse stares back.

“He's really good with kids,” Jack finishes, not quite believing what's happening. “She can pet him. Uh. Just be gentle?”

“You can pet the puppy,” the mom says. “Carefully. Don't pull on him.” She leads the girl over and puts her hand on Kent's fur. Parse wags his tail once, twice, kicking up dirt. Jack resigns himself to needing to have his sofa cleaned after this, since there's no way he can stop Kent from getting onto the furniture.

Jack watches as Kent submits to Mellie's attentions. She's scratching his belly and singing a little song to herself, about dogs and ice cream if Jack is hearing her correctly. Kent's leg is doing the thing where it kicks when she hits a good spot. If this were a real dog and a kid, Jack would pull out his phone so he could take a video for Bitty. But he's pretty sure that this is a big faux pas in the werewolf community, so maybe he'll just keep it to himself.

“Tell the nice man thank you,” the mom says firmly, when Mellie has finally just collapsed into Kent's belly and is talking to him like he can understand her, all about her day camp and a bug she saw. Well, Parse __can__ _u_ nderstand her, Jack reminds himself. But she doesn't know that.

“Thank you,” Mellie parrots, and they're finally alone again. Kent gets to his feet and shakes himself.

“Do you want to just go home?” Jack asks. Who cares if someone hears him talking to a dog and thinks he's insane? Plenty of people do it. Jack's seen them. “Watch a movie?”

Parse barks his agreement. Jack leads the way back.

 

“We're watching __Bridge on the River Kwai__ ,” Jack informs Kent, who groans. “The one with the opposable thumbs gets to pick, remember?”

Parse shoots him a look that clearly speaks of revenge, but he settles onto the couch with a grumble. Jack is definitely going to need to vacuum it tomorrow. Kent sheds like crazy.

 

Kent is making breakfast by the time Jack gets up on Saturday, back in his human skin. Jack eats a surprisingly good omelette and drinks his coffee. It's peaceful. Kent looks at his phone, eats his food, and doesn't talk.

 _Hope everything went well_ , Bitty texts. _< 3 <3_.

“I should get on the road,” Kent says after they're done eating. He stands up and stretches, yawns widely enough to crack his jaw. “You get to do the dishes, since you've got opposable thumbs and all.”

Jack should just let him go. This has gone well. But--

“Why aren't you being a dick anymore?” Jack asks. Kent looks at him, puzzled.

“Because I get where I stand, now,” Kent says. He shrugs. “Bitty's—you know. Bitty. And you're you. I'm over here, just--” Parse waves his hands around vaguely, like he's not gesturing to one of the top hockey players in the world, the guy who let a toddler pull on his fur for ten solid minutes yesterday. “Plus I got a new therapist, so that's been good.”

“Bitty said you coming to the Fourth of July at his house would have been like introducing his parents to his husband,” Jack says, before he can think better of it. Kent takes a step back, like Jack's words have a physical weight.

“That's. Um.” Kent takes off his snapback, runs a hand through his hair. “Christ, Zimms, what do you want me to say? He said let's be friends, I'm being his friend. You don't get what it means that he's a Bittle. Hell, I barely get what it means that he's a Bittle, other than that I have a literal pass I have to carry when we play any team in the South. I'm pretty sure his mom signed it.”

“I know that he got depressed for three days after the last time you left the Haus,” Jack says. He's got to barrel through. Now that he's started, he's got to finish it. He can see the shape of something, some kind of future, in the distance. Maybe if he gets this right. “And that he wanted to be with you on your birthday. I know he talks about being your mate like it's some kind of fairytale.”

Kent starts to snarl. Jack can see it happen, the moment where Parse feels cornered. Gotcha, he thinks.

“I'm backing off," Parse says. "Being a good guy for once. Don't make me want to fuck up your life. You know I'll do it, I've done it before.”

“You never fucked up my life.” Jack takes in Kent's stupefied expression and plows onward. “You didn't. Kenny, we were bad for each other. We were kids. But that doesn't mean you can't be good for Bittle.”

“You're such a moron, Zimms,” Kent says. He shakes his head. “You're never gonna get it, are you? There's no way. There's no me and Bitty. There can't be. Because you're there, right?”

“I can learn to live with it,” Jack says, not sure that he's telling the truth. But if it would make Bittle happy--

“It's not going to work, because I'm still in love with you,” Kent says. Now it's Jack's turn to stare, open-mouthed. “I'm his. And he's mine. And you're—you. So get your shit together, but leave me out of it. Leave me alone. I'm doing my best, okay? Fuck.”

He's gone before Jack's brain comes back online, front door slamming behind him. Jack wants to go after him, but--

He pulls out his phone. Calls Bitty.

“Hi, honey!” Bitty says. “How did last night go? Is Kent still there?”

“No, he left. And I think we've got a problem,” Jack says. “But. I think I know how to fix it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the end!


	4. they say you belong here with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is Kent going to do, just not go? Ignore Bitty? 
> 
> Kent ignores Bitty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, everyone! It's, you know, some sex parts!
> 
> Rating's gone up!

_I'll be in Providence for the next full moon_.

That's all that Bitty sends, after Kent makes an ass out of himself and professes his undying love for Zimms. Kent's been waiting for a reprimand, a warning, or an _oh, dear_ of some sort. He's not really sure what to make of this.

Providence again on the full moon. Well, at least Kent's got a month's reprieve.

He buckles down with training. The Aces are sure as hell not going to be swept again this season. Kent's going to make sure of that. He's feeling good, strong. He ignores the part of his brain that whispers he's working for his mate, to impress Bitty, to show off for Jack. That's not what this is about.

August flies by. Kent looks at the calendar and realizes that the moon's in a few days. He hasn't heard from Jack or Bitty since last time, which is probably not good. But what is Kent going to do, just not go? Ignore Bitty?

Kent ignores Bitty.

He drives out to his nana's old place instead of going to Providence. Kent knows he should have sold it years ago. He just hasn't gotten around to it. He fixed it up with the money from his first contract, so it's a clean, bright farmhouse with appliances from the current decade, at least. Not that it wasn't clean and bright when he was a kid, Nana was always a stickler about stuff like that. The furnace just works all the time, now.

Kent doesn't bother taking his sleeping pills, since the house is way out in the boonies, at least a mile from the nearest family. Plus there's coyotes and stuff, people will probably ignore any howling they do hear. He does lock himself into the barn, though. No use in messing up the throw pillows and stuff.

He's pretty sure Bitty will be okay this time. He's got Zimms with him.

 

The pounding is either inside Kent's head, or someone is trying to break down the door of his barn. He opens one eyes, squints in the light streaming in from the high windows. He apparently passed out on a pile of old blankets, and he's not as torn up as he thought he might be.

Huh. Maybe Kent's finally adjusting to this whole thing. That would be killer, especially since he has no clue how moons are supposed to work during the season.

Another series of heavy booms. Right. Barn door it is. Kent hauls himself to his feet and hobbles over to the door, heaves up the bar locking the barn. He can already smell who's on the other side.

Jack looks murderous, fist still raised up to knock again. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Kent licks his lips. He kind of wishes he'd put on pants first. “Uh, I was sleeping, Zimms, what does it look like?”

Zimms just heavy breathes at him, the way he always did when he was furious. It didn't happen too much, but, yeah. Kent winces and goes to find his underwear.

“Why didn't you come to Providence? We must have called you a hundred times yesterday.” Jack storms into the barn after him. Kent pulls on his clothes sluggishly. He honestly doesn't feel too rough, no worse than after a bag skate. He's kind of bruised, probably from throwing himself against the walls of the barn last night, trying to break out.

Kent remembers the calls, the texts. He turned his phone off sometime around two in the afternoon. “I didn't want to. Bitty's okay, right? You were with him?”

Jack takes a minute before he answers. Kent's pretty sure he's counting to ten or something. He tugs his shirt on and waits.

“He's fine, he's in the house. That's not why we're here. Parse, why didn't you come?”

Bitty is—here? Kent should have known. When he relaxes, concentrates, he can feel Bitty nearby, practically smell him already.

“We needed a test run,” Kent says. “And look, I'm okay, he's okay, so that's good.”

“You're black and blue,” Jack says. He reaches out and grabs Kent by the shoulder, so fast that Kent can't dodge. He flinches, not sure if Zimms is going in for a punch or something, and then freezes when he realizes he's getting hugged.

Jack is pressed against him, his arms are hard and tight around Kent. His nose is full of Jack-smell, weirdly absent of any sour anxiety.

“Don't ever scare us like that again, Kenny,” Jack says. “We thought you were _hurt_.”

“I'm just fine, dude.” Kent's got to find a way out of this. He pushes weakly at Jack's chest and manages to free himself from the hug. “I mean, up and about, right as rain, etc. Thanks for stopping by?”

Jack snorts, anger gone, melted away somewhere. “Yeah, like you're getting out of it that easy. Better come up to the house and face the music.”

Bitty's cooking, which Kent probably should find comforting, but instead it's—really fucking scary, okay? Bitty isn't banging around pots and pans the way Nana would when she got mad. Instead he's moving very deliberately, every stir controlled.

“I didn't think I had any groceries.” It's not like the house is completely gross, Kent's got a cleaning service that comes in once a month to dust and stuff, and they change the sheets and all, but he doesn't, like, live here. It's not home anymore.

Bitty's back goes stiffer. “We brought them. At the crack of dawn, mind you, because I spent all of yesterday _out of my mind_ with worry, and it wasn't until then that I could focus enough to come find you.”

“I didn't think you'd worry,” Kent says. Probably stupid. If it was him, if Bitty didn't show up when he was supposed to--

“If you didn't want to come, you could have said,” Jack says. He's standing in the kitchen doorway, lurking, the giant creep.

It's not about wanting. Well, it is, in a way. “I didn't want to get in the way.”

Bitty whirls around, eyes bright. Too bright. Those are alpha eyes, the flashing golden of them, and Kent does not back away, does not bow his head and show his neck. He, like, wants to, but he doesn't.

“Kent Parson, you are not in the way,” Bitty says, fierce. “Now sit yourself down at that table, we've all got some things to hash out.”

Kent sits himself at the table. Jack does the same. Bitty finishes making something that smells amazing—eggy, full of cheese and vegetables, and fuck yeah, _meat_ , and looks around at the cupboards.

“Plates are to the left,” Kent and Jack chorus as one, which is just, c'mon. Jack doesn't get to do that.

Bitty shoots Kent a quizzical look, but he dishes out the food and brings it over. “What's wrong, sweetheart?”

It takes Kent a second to realize that Bitty's talking to him. “Uh, nothing.”

“I'm sorry,” Zimms says. Kent takes a second to look over at him. He's not eating, just staring over at Kent. “I'm sorry I didn't come to the funeral.”

Jesus, do they have to talk about this? “It's fine, dude, it's not like we were talking. The guys came, Coach. It's not like it matters anymore.”

Jack makes a frustrated noise, something almost subvocal. “It matters, Parse. We owe each other a lot of apologies, we've done a lot of terrible shit, but I should have—you get to be mad about that.”

Kent isn't _mad_ about it. He's paved that one over. It's just weird to have them sitting in his nana's house like this. Jack only came to stay once, for real Thanksgiving, not the bullshit Canadian one, but yeah. Nana liked him.

“It's fine,” Kent says. “It really is. We're okay, dude. No worries.”

Now Jack's starting to get red, narrowing his eyes. “Fuck, Parse, can't you ever just come at it honestly? One minute you love me and the next it's fine that I didn't call when your grandma died?”

“Honey,” Bitty says, and this time it's definitely directed towards Jack. “That's not why we're here.”

Why the fuck are they here? Yeah, Bitty's pissed that Kent skipped out on the moon. Noted, he won't do it again. But why breakfast, why stick around? Kent opens his mouth to ask, but Bitty reaches over and places his hand on Kent's, gentle.

They haven't touched since—ever. Not in their human skins. It sends something electric zinging through Kent, makes his stomach churn, his wolf rise up to the surface. He can feel his fangs trying to push out, his claws wanting to burst through. When he looks at Bitty, he only sees golden eyes. The touch on his hand turns into a clutch, something Kent never wants to break.

He's got to get out of here.

“I can't,” Kent croaks. “Bitty, I can't. You're—you're in love with Jack, and he's in love with you, and I'm--”

“We're lucky, then,” Bitty says. His eyes are brown again, and he's smiling, and fuck. Kent is in so deep here. “We're lucky that we're both in love with you, too.”

The world seems to fall away, for a minute. When Kent comes back, Jack is holding his other hand.

“You're—in love with me.” It's not real. It can't be real. Bitty, or Jack. Kent knows better, he knows this dream. He wakes up in about two minutes.

“You don't have to say it back,” Bitty says. Kent can't look away from his face, his smile. “This isn't me telling you as your alpha, or anything. You don't have to. But if you want it—us. We're here.”

If. Kent blinks, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. We. Them. _Both_ of them. Us.

“Say it back, Kenny,” Zimms says. Commands. The only one who can't back it up, but who knows that Kent needs--

“I'm in love with you, too.” And. “I think if I don't get the two of you upstairs right now I'm going to die.”

Bitty laughs, loud and warm. Kent feels something inside of him uncoil, something he didn't even know was there. “Well, if you'd come to Providence this would have all been taken care yesterday, but I suppose we can work with a change in venue.”

It's up to Kent to lead the way upstairs to his room, his very first den. But once they're inside, it's up to Jack to strip Kent out of his clothes, it's up to Bitty to kiss the moon-bruises on Kent's shoulders. Kent's running on instinct and memory, pure and simple, when he pushes Bitty down onto the bed and peels off his jeans, his socks, kisses the soft white skin of his inner thigh.

“Oh! My,” Bitty sighs. Kent noses his way into Bitty's boxers, where the smell of him is thick and real. “You don't have to, baby, not if you don't want--”

“He wants to,” Zimms rumbles behind them. A hand falls into Kent's hair, Zimms' hand, and he closes his eyes. “He loves this. He's always loved this.”

Bitty laughs again, high and breathless, excited. Kent made him laugh like that. Yes, he loves this. He rips Bitty's boxers away and swallows him down.

It's good, being down on his knees for Bitty. Kent likes the bite of the wooden floor on his knees, the taste of Bitty's skin. Jack's hand stays in his hair, pulling just a little. Zimms was always good at that, making Kent feel it. He can hear them, above him, making out wet and sloppy. He wants to look, but it's too much. He keeps his eyes closed, relishes the moment.

It's not too long before Bitty's breathing hard, starting to thrust into Kent's mouth, tiny little pushes like he can't help it. Jack lets go of Kent's hair, which sucks, but Zimms probably doesn't want him to choke, which is also kind of nice.

“Can I? It's okay, baby, but can I—? I'm going to--” Bitty pants, his words turning to choked-off gasps.

Kent opens his eyes, then, just for a second. He can't look anywhere but Bitty, the world narrows down to one spot. Bitty's flushed and beautiful, his hands braced on the bed behind him, clutching at the bedspread like he's trying to restrain himself.

He doesn't have to. Kent doesn't want him to hold back. He ducks his head back down and redoubles his efforts, sucking harder, swirling his tongue, trying every trick in the book.

Bitty comes with a shout, and Kent does his best. It's been a while since he's swallowed, so some spills out, over his lips, his chin.

“Holy god,” Bitty murmurs, staring down at him. He wipes his thumb across Kent's mouth absently, like he doesn't even notice he's doing it. Kent licks after it. He wants to taste, wants it burned into his throat. It's Bitty. “Kent, baby, oh my god. Get up here.”

Kent can follow directions. He clambers up onto the bed and lets Bitty press him onto his back, and then he can look for Zimms.

Jack's apparently been busy while Kent's been at work, because he's naked and sweaty, glistening with it. He's kneeling on the bed, one arm disappearing behind him. Fuck, yes.

Jack tosses a condom at Kent, smirks. “Think you can handle it?”

“Bring it, Zimmermann,” Kent says. He rolls the condom on, and oh, holy shit. It's familiar and strange all at once, the heat of Zimms sinking down around him. Jack straddles him, bites his lip as he gets used to it. Kent doesn't move. He couldn't move if he wanted to.

Bitty snuggles up next to Kent, warm and sated, smelling like the three of them, sweat and come. It's heady, would knock Kent flat on his back if he wasn't there already.

“Oh, shit,” Zimms says, as he sinks down the final inch or so, bottoms out. “Okay, I'm going to just--”

He starts to work himself on Kent's cock, thighs flexing. Kent tries to get his feet under them, help out a little, but Bitty reaches out and pushes his hips back down.

“Just take it.” Bitty's voice is smooth, his accent heavier than usual. “Look how much he loves it.”

So Kent gulps and stays like that, manages some tiny accompanying thrusts up that make Jack's face go slack. He doesn't know how long it's been. He feels like his brain is leaking out his ears, he can only look at Jack, listen to Bitty. Bitty--

“Look at you,” Bitty growls into his ear. Kent bites his lip and tries to hang on. He's not going to last long at this rate, and he wants to make sure Zimms gets off first. “Look at you, taking it so well, being so good for him, for me. You're so pretty. You're so good. You're mine, you're _ours_.”

And that's it, that's all she wrote. Kent manages one desperate whine, one last thrust, and then he's coming. Jack swears, wraps a hand around his dick, still kneeling over Kent, who can only lie there.

“So much for werewolf stamina, eh?” Jack grunts out. Kent's going to get him back for that sometime. He's going to pin Jack to the bed and treat him so nice that he _cries_. But for now he watches Jack get himself off, awestruck. He gets to see this again, and it's so much fucking _better_ than it used to be.

Zimms comes all over Kent's stomach, all the way up to his chest, which is pretty fucking awesome. He hears Bitty take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the three of them.

“Dude,” Kent says, eventually, when circulation becomes a problem. “Get your big ass off of me and go get a washcloth.”

Zimms clambers off the bed, grumbling, “Two mythical creatures and I'm the one doing all the work,” which, Kent is going to fucking _destroy_ him as soon as he can get hard again. Or maybe after a nap. Whatever.

Bitty seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he snuggles down next to Kent, drapes himself along Kent's side, and sighs. His eyes are drifting closed, a smile on his face. Kent can't help leaning down to plant a kiss on his hair.

“Can you feel it?” Bitty asks, sleepy. “The bond?”

If he thinks about it, Kent can—a new awareness of Bitty, the simmering closeness. He kind of thought it was just the afterglow. “Is it going to last?”

Bitty hums. “Don't know. Never met anyone else with a mate before.”

Kent doesn't know what to say to that. He's trying to think of some reply, something that won't sound stupid, when a damp washcloth smacks him on the face.

“Thanks, Zimms,” Kent says, peeling it off and using it to wipe up the worst of the mess. “Love your consideration, as always.”

“Scoot,” Jack says, climbing back into bed. Kent has some serious doubts about the ability of his old double to hold all three of them, but Jack doesn't seem to share them. He pushes at Kent, arranges him in the middle. Drapes himself over Kent's other side, so he's bracketed by Zimms and Bitty, warm without blankets, something soft settling into his stomach.

“Uh, does someone else want to be in the middle?” Kent asks, just checking.

“Hush,” Bitty mutters into Kent's collarbone.

“Nap now,” Jack adds, arranging his arm over Kent's chest. “Talk later.”

Kent guesses that sounds like a good idea. He lets himself close his eyes, start to drift off.

It's okay. Bitty and Zimms'll be here when he wakes up.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! Please let me know if there's anything I need to fix, I live in eternal fear of having accidentally given someone three arms or something.


End file.
